My gastronomical love affair with Japan started with my first bite of a maki roll at a café restaurant in New York when I was still a freshman in college. The indelible moment: wooden chopsticks in my fumbling hands, I picked up the salmon roll and placed the plump piece solemnly on my tongue: Crisp nori, buttery and sweet salmon, the rice firm but delicately laced with vinegar. In this girl-meets-sushi storybook story, I fell hard.

Ten years later, during a week-long vacation in Japan, I remembered that moment as one does a first kiss and sought, nostalgically, to try to recreate that new food magic. One night, when hunger started gnawing at around 11:30 pm, we sauntered out into the chilly night and sought comfort over a steaming bowl of noodles at a neighborhood ramen shop. In Japan, ramen shops are legendary, noodle proprietors acquiring the mantle of Zen masters for their creations. Yearly contests are held and ramen shops go belly-to-belly like world class sumo wrestlers. A high ranking guarantees bragging rights and long queues.

There was nothing grandiose in this shop we entered though it did have the air of a place that sported a high ranking title or two in the past. The no frills bowl of steaming noodles placed before me was only dressed in a rich and briny broth of miso and pork fat. The corn, scallions and sliver of seaweed added texture to the unctuous, fatty base. The soup glimmered in my bowl and then on the corners of my mouth and my lips as I devoured it. In the small space, only the sounds of the oil jumping on the hot pan, the pots with their boiling stock and customers slurping could be heard.

Ramen Heaven
From the frenzy of Tokyo, we traveled up to Nikko, two hours to the north of the city. For the train ride, my friend and I stocked up on bento boxes. The Japanese have taken the unassuming lunchbox concept and raised it to an art form. Inside, lovingly compartmentalized, were a pair of shitake mushrooms, an ornamental looking salmon, egg and radish cake, pieces of fried tofu, red rice with beans and white rice.

Bento Art
Nikko in winter is not for the faint of heart. Similar in climate to its northern cousin Hokkaido, Nikko is often called the “refrigerator of Kanto region”. What is unique about the topography and area is the phenomenon known as “Kazahana” (Flowers in the wind), where snow floats down from the top.

Staying at a ryokan (traditional Japanese inn) at a nearby onsen (hot spring) is the quintessential Japanese experience. As one of most active geological sites on the planet, Japan is blessed with thousands of hot springs. Our onsen was outdoors and the contrast of the winter chill with the steaming, hot bath was delightful. The contrasting temperatures increased blood flow to our heads and our view of the desolate, snow covered hills felt surreal.

After we scrubbed and soaked our weary bodies in the sulphuric waters, we revived our sedated minds with a dinner at the adjoining restaurant. As a spa menu dictates, the food was sparse and aesthetic – the antithesis of the ramen shop in Tokyo – no turbulence of flavors but more a corseted, detachment. The central dish of the night was freshly made tofu (yuba).

Tofu is often seen as a consolation for vegetarians but at the ryokan restaurant we learned to see the humble bean curd with new eyes. Yuba, made from gently warmed soy milk, is akin to flan, creamy and sweet in its subtle soybean flavor, a comforting custard that should be savored not devoured. When you are served yuba, you add nigari, a thickening agent that gives form to the soy milk before it is ready to eat. Depending on your taste, you determine the consistency of the dish -- the more vigorous you stir in the nigari, the tougher the tofu gets. Here, tofu is elevated beyond its trappings of "coagulated bean curd" and you begin to appreciate the subtle differences between the silken and dense blocks bought at the supermarket. Once ready, we drizzled our tofu with soy sauce and threw in grated scallions and ginger. Yummy!

Yummy Yuba
On New Years Day, my friend brought me to her grandmother’s home where we feasted on a traditional Japanese menu (osechi-ryori) served during the first three days of the New Year. This is truly a special treat as osechi is something you’ll be hard-pressed to find on a Japanese menu. It is prepared in advance in Japanese homes and seasoned in a way to be preserved for several days. It includes azunoko (herring roe), or crunchy tiny yellow fish eggs marinated in a broth of dashi, sake and soy sauce; kuromame (black beans); gomame (also known as tazukuri) dried sardines served with sweet sauce of sugar, mirin, soy sauce and sake; kombumaki stuffed with salmon, which is cooked slowly in dashi, mirin, sugar, and soy sauce; sweet potatoes and chestnuts are another accompaniment, which offer sweetness that balances with the saltiness of the other dishes; kamaboko, a cake of cod fish, often colored red and white (traditional New Year's colors); namasu made of pickled daikon radish and carrots. For vegetables, look for gobo (burdock root), often dressed with sesame. Also lotus root, carrots, shiitake mushrooms and pea pods.

Osechi-ryori
While serving the food, my friend's grandmother explained to me the philosophy of Japanese cooking. The Japanese menu should attempt to incorporate five flavors, five colors and five methods of preparation. The osechi-ryori was a perfect example of this philosophy in practice.

Over the course of a week, Japan’s culinary delights were reborn in a new light. It became a moveable feast that veered decidedly away from the restaurant scene, and instead bridging together the quirky, decidedly cozy and personal, and avant-garde, in a single tangential stroke. With my new understanding of Japanese cuisine, sushi will never taste the same again!